


Amorinda's Creative Writing Recycling Bin

by Amorinda



Category: Original Works, short stories compilation - Fandom
Genre: Flash Fiction, Gen, some fandoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2020-12-17 16:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21057269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amorinda/pseuds/Amorinda
Summary: This is basically just a bunch of works I did for my Creative Writing class in college that I wanted to share! Some are flash-fiction works (stories under 800 words), while others are basic things written during exercises and prompts to help us grow. I'm trying to give titles to the short story/flash fiction works, but if they're from the exercises or prompts, I'll supply the context in the chapter summary/notes.





	1. First exercise: Working with Details

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of the first things done in class. We were given three basic sentences:
> 
> 1\. The moon was full.  
2\. The roads were bad.  
3\. The children were happy.
> 
> We were to take a sentence and expand upon it, adding more details or going against the basic idea it gave. I chose the first sentence, but decided to stray from the obvious 'full moon' idea often used. The following is the paragraph I had written in lieu of a simple sentence.

Leaving my car and stepping up to my door, I pause before allowing myself inside. The frigid night air provides a calm for me, and, as if responding, I look up into the darkened sky. The moon is faint, in its final phase of waning, but the sliver of a crescent I catch with my eyes still fills the surrounding atmosphere with pale blue light. I love the night like this; just enough light from the moon to illuminate the lightless dirt roads of the land I call home while also allowing a plethora of stars to shine just outside its grasp. The less light the moon gives, the more stars I get to see. A night like this provides the perfect balance of moonlight and starshine. It's the kind of night that makes it difficult to bring myself indoors; that makes me want to risk catching a chill for just a moment longer of dreaming. I stare for another minute. Perhaps luck would allow me sight of a shooting star, but the sky remains still. With a final breath of clean air, I open my door and vanish indoors, eagerly awaiting the next astral phenomenon, whenever it may arrive.


	2. "Dancing Cobwebs"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a work exercise for make a title then write a story for that title, choosing a verb from a list given to us and a noun from a list given to us. I chose "dancing" and "cobwebs," then wrote the little story below. I was also a challenge given to make it a work of Flash Fiction - a work under 800 words.

Something you never thought you’d ever experience in your life was an admiration for the attic. As a child, you were curious and even afraid of what might lay hidden past that panel in the hallway ceiling. As a teenager, you paid it no mind, knowing it now as just a dusty old room to store dusty old items in. One that rarely saw company in the form of a person.

But now, you’re an adult, and the home has become yours. You’ve helped move your parents out and slowly worked your ways from the basement to the second floor, clearing out the remainder of their belongings. Now it was time to empty the attic of things you don’t plan on keeping.

Pulling the cord attached to the panel and carefully setting the fold-out ladder onto the floor, you begin your ascent into a room your parents had left untouched for years. Actually, thinking about it, you can’t remember ever seeing your parents step foot into this space. Perhaps they had, when you were too large for your infant furniture, your child furniture, or when you left for college. But you couldn’t be sure.

Finally, you reach the dark and cold attic, pulling out your phone to utilize the ‘flashlight’ built into it. The moment it turns on, you feel breathless. Stacks of old boxes to look through; a stunning wardrobe you remember seeing once at your Grandmother’s; a wall covered in antique knick-knacks; portrait frames lined neatly along the furthest wall, beneath a dirty old black-out curtain that prevented the sun’s strength from fading it all.

But these items aren’t the only thing to stir your childish excitement. Scattered over it all, some portions larger than others but all glittering under the light from your phone, were countless cobwebs. It reminds you almost of vines in a jungle, dangling about and overtaking whatever within their reach.

You cautiously step past each thread, hesitant to touch in case one may turn out to be the home of a spider, with your aim being to let in the light and some fresh air. You reach the window covered by that old curtain and are momentarily blinded by the mid-day sunlight cutting through the dark your eyes had adjusted to. You recoil back, turning from the window and shielding your eyes with your hands.

A minute passes and you lower your hands from your face, tolerant enough against the fresh sunshine to turn your flashlight off, though not yet enough to truly face the window. Another minute, and you can face the window with your whole body. You set your phone down on the dusty windowsill and fight with the lock that had long since rusted over. It takes another two minutes to unlock, and your fingers ache the same as your eyes had moments earlier.

You begin to wonder if it’s even worth trying to open, given the struggle of the lock, but the wind answers your call. What was previously calm silence quickly changed into a storm of sound: a large gust throws the windows open, and again you shield your face as the sharp, sudden breeze enters the room; you hear loose papers scatter behind you, and you turn to see what could have been damaged.

Your eyes widen, and you find yourself immobile. The wind settles enough for the papers to fall, but you can still see the dancing threads. What were once idle now fly freely through the air, twirling and leaping as though each strand was the prima donna of its own ballet.

You’re mesmerized by the show that lasts perhaps five minutes before the wind finally dies down once more, and the dust settles to the ground. You take another moment to collect your thoughts again, remembering what brought you up here in the first place. You begin to sift through everything left behind but stop at every breeze. You look over your shoulder, hopeful to bear witness to something as grand as that cobweb ballet. The strings above your head stir, but it isn’t the same reaction as the gust. The wind allowed for a single show, with you in the VIP seat.

Now, it has all returned to silence, and you to dull objects with no sentimental value.

The attic remains a powerful place for you, you think as you leave, but only on days when the wind blows strong. You left the webs alone, all resting and awaiting for their next chance to shine before you.


	3. Below 100

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was practice for writing a story below 100 words. The first paragraph is a personal experience, the second was practice in taking my experience and altering it for a fictional character's point of view.

I loved to play in the snow when I was little. Eight-year-old me would visit my father in New York, and would try valiantly to build a snowman despite my many previous failures. But a snowball fight quickly brought disdain towards the pure white fluff, as a stray snowball from my father hit me square in the face. The sting against my skin, close to fire, was more than I was willing to bear, and I started to scream for inside and warmth. I didn’t go out for the rest of that visit unless I had to.

* * *

I lived in a world of acrid heat, never once knowing the feel of cold or ice, until fourteen, on a journey - alone - to find something stolen from me. At first, it was enjoyable to feel the cold; almost relaxing against my skin that had only known ‘scorch’. But something hidden in the shadows, a presence that disliked mine, hurled a chunk of compressed fluff towards me. Connecting with my face, I felt a burn far worse than the dessert sun, as though my face were truly ablaze. I swiftly fled, seeking a path around the snow rather than through.


End file.
